


you'll get your wings at the right time

by blamefincham



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Princess Diaries AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:46:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hang on, wait, what are you—me, rule a country?" </p>
<p>Patrick grins. "You really are getting it!" </p>
<p>Brandon stands up, unsteady, like his legs aren't fully part of the rest of his body. "You're—seriously? Wh—What the hell makes you think I'm qualified to do that?" </p>
<p>"You're a prince, you were literally born that way," says Patrick dryly.</p>
<p>[A Princess Diaries AU.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll get your wings at the right time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenamichaels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenamichaels/gifts).



> I am so, so, so very sorry for how late this is. I am terrible with deadlines and a garbage person, BUT I hope you enjoy it anyway! I couldn't pass up the notion of secret prince Brandon :)
> 
> Thank you to Jenny for being very patient with me and also editing this. Forever my shining star.
> 
> Title from "The Journey" by Mpulz, which is of course on the Princess Diaries soundtrack.

"Well," Brandon sighs at his reflection's face in the mirror, "as always, this is as good as it's gonna get."

Besides, even if staring at his hair _would_ make it look cool eventually, he was going to be late to class if he kept standing here. Brandon jams a hat on his head, waves goodbye to his mom, then hops on his scooter and races for the train, just like he ends up doing every morning, no matter how early he gets up.

It'd be a normal, boring Tuesday if not for the speech he has to give in his Communications class this afternoon. It's a pretty simple topic and Brandon's been practicing, but he _hates_ speaking in front of people. Like, those people who rate public speaking as their number one fear and death as their number two? Yeah, that's him. 

A familiar voice shouting "Yo, B, heads up!" startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up just in time to catch the small book flying towards his face. 

" _The Very Embarrassing Book of Dad Jokes?_ " Brandon reads the cover aloud as Shawzy and Leds drop into the seats on either side of him. 

Shawzy jostles Brandon's shoulder with his own. "Yeah, well, I knew you were gonna be freaking out about your speech today, so. Look, a distraction! C'mon, read some aloud."

Brandon's primary emotion is still nerves, but that's almost touching. He shoves Andy back as a way of saying thanks; Andy shoves him again which knocks him into Nick, and it's only luck that keeps them all from toppling into the little old lady on Nick's other side. 

—

The book does serve as a nice, mindless distraction for Brandon; he reads it all day between reading over his notes and trying to stay calm, and when it actually comes time for Communications he feels like hey, maybe he can actually do this. 

When it's time for Brandon to go up and present, Nick claps him on the shoulder encouragingly, and Shawzy makes finger guns at him, and—then he gets to the front of the class, and everyone's looking at him, and wow, his entire mind has gone blank. He was supposed to be telling a story from when he was a kid, a pretty simple exercise, but right now he's not sure he could tell the class his own name.

Brandon can feel his throat closing up. The ticking of the clock on the wall behind him is deafeningly loud. After a few seconds, the teacher says, "Brandon?" gently, and he's hit with a wave of nausea so intense—

He covers his mouth and runs for the bathroom. 

—

He makes it, but that's pretty cold comfort, knowing what an idiot he just made of himself. Leds texts to say he's got Brandon's bag if Brandon doesn't want to come back to class, which he definitely doesn't, so at least there's that. That, and his wallet and keys are in his pockets, so he can just go home now and wallow there instead of on campus.  
He's so distracted on his way home that he doesn't notice anything out of the unusual until he's almost at the door, and then he does a double-take at the limo parked out front. A serious-looking guy in a black suit and sunglasses standing by the door nods at him, and Brandon begins to wonder if his mom's been kidnapped by the FBI or something. 

But when he gets inside, miserable from his afternoon and mind racing with possibilities, everything looks normal, except for the extremely attractive man in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee with his mom. Brandon's used to coming home to some pretty strange things—paint balloons, huge pieces of metal strung from the ceiling, a floor intentionally covered in legos—but that's more or less par for the course when your mom is an artist. An extremely attractive man in the kitchen, though: that's a new one.

He definitely doesn't look like the kind of guy Mom usually dates, or the kind who buys her art, so Brandon can't imagine what he'd be doing here. Fortunately he doesn't have to imagine for long, because they notice him when he trips over a stray shoe in the entryway. 

"Brandon! I suppose it's time you met your Uncle Patrick," says his mom in the clenched-teeth voice she usually reserves for bill collectors. 

"Uncle—?" says Brandon, bewildered. His dad used to mention a little brother in his letters, sure, but this guy doesn't look much older than Brandon himself. That and him being Brandon's uncle doesn't really explain what he's doing in Brandon's living room, considering that Brandon's dad's whole side of the family lives in—some little country in Europe, he always forgets the name.

Patrick, apparently, isn't afraid to be familiar; he comes right over and gives Brandon a warm hug, which Brandon returns a little stiffly and belatedly. "Uh…hi?" 

"Wow, do you look like your dad," says Patrick a little hoarsely as he lets go, and—right. It was sad for Brandon when his dad died—it still is, it's not like six months is a long time to grieve—but he didn't actually know the guy. He was Patrick's big brother, though, and Brandon's an only child, but he can imagine how hard that must have been. Must be.

"I'm, um, sorry for—" 

"—Come on, Brandon, we should talk," says Patrick, smoothly steamrolling Brandon's attempt at an awkward apology. That or he was just unaware Brandon had started talking at all; that happens to Brandon all the time.

—

Mom looks dubious about leaving them alone together, but she's got critique with her art group at four, so she doesn't really have a choice. It's ridiculous, honestly; Brandon's in college now, an actual adult, kids his age are living in other countries all on their own, and his mom barely wants to leave him under the supervision of a relative. 

Once she's gone, Patrick sits next to Brandon on the couch. In his three-piece suit and with his impeccable hair, he looks entirely out of place in their scruffy, eclectic living room. Not that he lets it faze him; he looks perfectly calm as he leans over to set a soothing hand on Brandon's arm.

Brandon's instantly concerned. Nobody other than his mom pays this much attention to him, and that's exactly the way he likes it. Whatever Patrick's here for, it can't be anything good.

"Look, Brandon. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but really, it's long past time somebody told you the truth. There's not really any way to hedge around this, so…" 

Patrick sighs and takes his hand off Brandon's arm so he can run it through his hair. He looks like a male model, which Brandon carefully does not say out loud. It's just a little surreal. "Your dad, my brother, Eddie? Well. You know our side of the family lives in Genovia…that's because we're its royal family. Your dad was the crown prince."

Instantly, any thoughts about Patrick and/or his hair are washed away by blind shock. " _What?!?_ " says Brandon, shocked. 

With all the pause of a freight train, Patrick barrels on. "Your grandfather is king, but he's really too old to rule at this point. He's planning on stepping down soon, and I'm next in line, but I can't do it—I'd be a terrible king, I was never supposed to be, and anyway I've got my family to worry about. But you…"

Brandon is sort of distantly hearing these words, but his brain got stuck somewhere around _prince_. "You mean like—like he was an actual prince? Ruler-to-be of a country?"

"Well, we have a parliament," says Patrick exasperatedly. "But yes, he was a prince. C'mon, Brandon, keep up, you're a smart kid. If your dad was the prince and your grandpa's the king, what does that make you?"

That actually requires a second's thought, while Brandon envisions the British royal family. "…a prince?" he asks.

"You've got it!" says Patrick. "And since you are, that means you can rule." 

" _Rule?_ " says Brandon, starting to feel like a broken record. "Hang on, wait, what are you—me, rule a country?" 

Patrick grins. "You really are getting it!" 

Brandon stands up, unsteady, like his legs aren't fully part of the rest of his body. "You're—seriously? Wh—What the hell makes you think I'm qualified to do that?" 

"You're a prince, you were literally born that way," says Patrick dryly.

For some reason, that just serves to infuriate Brandon more. "No, I was born Brandon Saad, not Brandon—Renaldi. My mom raised me, in Chicago, by herself. I can't rule a country, I can barely even—" he stops short, before he blurts out his really embarrassing afternoon to an almost-total stranger.

Patrick leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Look. I came to find you because I know I'd be terrible, and I thought you might not be. At the end of the day, it's your choice. Just—think about it?"

"Think about it? I spend most of my time thinking about how to be as invisible as possible," Brandon can't keep himself from snapping back.

Patrick looks some weird mixture of sympathetic and disappointed, and Brandon just—he can't deal with this right now, he literally cannot. It's probably not the adult or mature thing to do to run up to your bedroom, lock the door, and leave your uncle from another country sitting in your living room, but sometimes your best is all you can do.

—

Brandon's plan is to stay locked in his bedroom until Patrick gives up and flies back to Genovia, but his mom comes home from critique first and drags him back out to broker a peace. After much negotiation, they agree that Brandon will try out this whole prince thing for three weeks, until the independence day ball that's the other reason for Patrick's visit. 

So now, between classes, homework, and intramural hockey, Brandon has to find time to have "prince lessons" with Patrick every other day. When Brandon points out the considerable inconvenience of this, Patrick frowns. "That's a fair point. Okay. Well, you're still getting around on a combination of mass transit and that sad little scooter thing, right? What if I lent you my bodyguard and the limo he uses to drive me around?"

Brandon knows this is just because Patrick's trying to get him to do what he wants, but he's not about to look a gift chauffeur in the mouth. 

Even if said chauffeur is slightly terrifying and doesn't appear to speak much English. 

"Brandon, this is Sergei Bobrovsky, my head of security. He's great, you'll love him," says Patrick by way of introduction. Brandon's not at all sure who that second sentence is directed at, but his mom raised him with manners, so he extends his hand to shake.

"It's nice to meet you," he says politely.

"Nice to meet you too," says Bobrovsky with a smile. His accent is thickly Russian—is Genovia near Russia? Brandon needs to do some googling if he's going to even kind of consider this whole prince thing—but other than that, he's really not as intimidating as Brandon would expect a bodyguard to be. "You call me Bob," he instructs.

That's a relief too, being offered a nickname. "Bobby?" Brandon tries with a smile.

"Bob," Bob corrects firmly. Brandon flushes instantly.

—

They pick up Nick and Andrew on the way to campus because what's the point in having a limo if you don't use it to drive your friends around? When Brandon voices this opinion out loud, he's sure he can see Bob smiling at him in the rearview mirror.

"Holy fucking shit," says Andy eloquently as he slides in.

"When you said you were picking us up in your new ride, I was expecting like a $300 used Chevy or something," Nick adds as he climbs in after him.

"Yeah, like—where the fuck did this come from?" Shawzy asks, playing with the button that raises and lowers the divider between the driver and the passengers. 

Brandon shrugs, a bit uncomfortably. Patrick had made him swear not to tell anyone about the prince thing, lest it end up attracting a bunch of media attention, but it feels wrong to keep anything from Nick and Andy, especially something this big. "Uh, my uncle showed up and he wants me to use it for a little while. I don't know, think he's trying to be nice?" 

From the looks on their faces, they don't buy that story at all. But they let it drop, so Brandon will take it.

—

If Communications class is Brandon's personal hell, then intramural hockey practice is his personal heaven. He's always loved the game, never been quite good enough to take it really seriously, but it's just—it's so much fun. Plus, the guys are great: it's how he met Nick and Andy freshman year.

Also, some of the guys are even more great than others. Namely, Tyler Seguin, cause of Brandon's freshman year second semester sexuality crisis. It's not like he and Brandon are friends—god no, they exist in totally different circles; Tyler's in a frat and Brandon still plays Magic sometimes—but he wanders around the locker room before and after practice and games, naked and smiling and way more charismatic than any human has any right to be. 

And yeah, sometimes Brandon zones out a little while carefully not looking at Tyler except maybe out of the corner of his eye, but that's his own business. At least it is until Nick snaps him out of it by throwing a pair of shorts at his head. 

"Fuck off," Brandon complains, throwing them back.

"Hey, I could've thrown the jock instead," Nick points out. "Besides, didn't you say you had somewhere to be right after practice?"

_Motherfucker._ Leds is totally right, and Brandon is totally late.

That means that when he makes it to prince lessons with Patrick, they've already started off on the wrong foot. Patrick is frowning at him and conspicuously adjusting his ostentatious watch, and Brandon feels more like a toad than a prince right now.

It's entirely possible that the posture practice Patrick starts him on is a form of punishment. It definitely feels that way. "You schlump everywhere like this," says Patrick, affecting an exaggerated slouch. "It makes you look like a sixteen year old delinquent. If you're going to be a prince—" he smoothly draws himself up to his prior, perfect posture, "—then you've got to stand up straight."

Brandon tries. But apparently he doesn't try well enough, because he ends up eating dinner tied to a chair, for more "practice".

—

The posture practice is bad enough, but Patrick also loads Brandon down with a huge stack of books on Genovian history that he's supposed to somehow find time to read—and he has to miss hockey practice on Friday because he has appointments with a barber and a tailor, of all things. Not only is that personally annoying, but he knows Nick and Andy are kind of mad about it—they have a game next weekend, and Brandon couldn't even come up with a plausible excuse, just muttered something vague and ran off.

The tailor is this ridiculous guy named Paolo who speaks with an accent that, to Brandon, just sounds straight up fake. He actually cries when Brandon comes into his shop, and it doesn't seem like happy tears, so that's pretty rude. But after an hour or so of being poked and prodded in sensitive areas with measuring tape and pins and being implored to buy some clothes that actually fit (something about "incredible raw material", whatever that means), he escapes to the barber, who is much more normal.

Brandon's just a normal college guy who doesn't put a lot of effort or attention into how he looks—generally he shaves his head when his hair starts bothering him in the summer and that's more or less it. The barber not only gives his beard a nice trim, but then she goes out of her way to patiently show him how to keep it looking neat. After that, he gets far and away the best haircut he's ever had: short on the sides, and it does some kind of swoopy thing in front. He thinks it's something he's never going to be able to replicate himself, but the barber washes the product out and makes him try it himself three or four times until she's satisfied he's got it down.

The tailor sends some clothes to Brandon over the weekend, and it's kind of amazing how different it feels to wear clothes that actually fit. On a whim, he decides to wear some to school on Monday: nothing too outlandish, just a soft sweater over a buttondown, some really nice looking jeans, and, what the hell, some dress shoes. He even nails the swoop in his hair; when he climbs into the backseat of the limo, he's feeling pretty damn good about himself.

And then they swing by to pick up Leds and Shawzy, and—he'd been expecting some surprise, but Nick starts laughing so hard he's almost crying, and Andy is actually _silent_ for once, which is totally unnerving. 

"Who did this to you?!" Nick manages after a couple minutes of hysteria. "And why? Are you gonna tell me you're switching to a business major and pledging Sig Ep or something?" 

Brandon flushes and feels his shoulders creep up around his ears. He didn't think he looked that ridiculous, but Nick is laughing, and Andy's still speechless, and he kind of wants to go home and get a hat and a hoodie, or something. 

"It's just, I don't know, trying something different," he manages quietly.

"I think it looks good," says Andy finally, and Nick stops laughing. "Really good, Saader." 

There's something off about his voice, but Brandon appreciates the compliment so much that he doesn't even question it. "Thanks, Andy. At least I have one loyal friend." 

"I think it good too," Bob chirps in from the front seat. 

—

"Hey, B," says Andy, falling into step with Brandon between classes that afternoon. "You busy this Saturday, uh, after the game?" 

Brandon thinks over his schedule in his head. The Genovian ball is on Sunday, and he's got prince lessons between now and then, but other than the afternoon game, nothing comes to mind. "Not really, why?"

Shawzy's kind of bouncing in place, rolling back and forth in his seat, and—well, not that him being full of energy is at all an unusual sight, but he's been Brandon's friend for long enough that Brandon is pretty sure something is up with him. "Oh, okay, good, good. 'Cause like, you know, that movie we wanted to see, the one about the dragon and the kid and whatever? That's coming out this weekend, and I thought we could go, y'know, 'cause we both wanted to see it, and Nick said he thought it was gonna be lame, so whatever, he doesn't have to come, it can be just us. But, uh, you know, not like, a date, or anything, not weird, just like. Bro date. For the dragon movie. Yeah?" 

Brandon coughs to cover up his smile. It's not that it hasn't occurred to him that Andy might have feelings for him—it's not that he hasn't been kind of hoping that that might be the case, and Andy's not a very subtle guy—but this is basically Andy waving a giant neon sign. Nobody says 'bro date.' 

"Yeah, Andy, that sounds good," says Brandon with a smile. Andy beams back at him, but whatever he might have said is totally lost when they walk into the doors of the student union and there are suddenly fifty cameras in Brandon's face.

—

It turns out that Paolo the tailor leaked the news to the press to draw attention to the suit he made for Brandon to wear to the state dinner at the Genovian embassy that night. Patrick is coldly furious, and Brandon ends up having to explain everything to Nick and Andy over text message—he can tell they're pretty irritated with him for keeping it a secret. Honestly, he can't blame them; he'd feel the same way if the situation were reversed.

But at the moment, he's got bigger fish to fry: namely, the state dinner in question. And he still has to wear the suit, because it _is_ a really good suit, and also it's all he's got.

It starts off okay. Brandon's got the Genovian prime minister on one side, a really nice guy who tells Brandon to "Please, call me Nick," in his first breath. On the other side is a severe-looking diplomat from an eastern European country whose name Brandon had never heard before, and so he forgets it almost at once. Worrying that he's going to have to recall it or worse, pronounce it, drives him to distraction—distraction enough that he takes an overly large bite of steak that he ends up having to not-so-discreetly spit out, knocks over his wine glass, and stands up directly into a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses, all in the space of about five minutes. 

At that point he just escapes the dinner entirely, because it seems like the option that's least likely to end in an international incident. Brandon's really not sure why Patrick ever thought he'd be cut out for this—but more than that, why he let himself be talked into even trying. Brandon can't even give a speech for a college class; what made him think he'd ever be qualified to help run a country?

Before his thoughts can get any more self-pitying than that, Brandon's interrupted by the door opening. His first guess is that it's Bob, sent to take him home and instruct him to never come back—but it's Patrick, who should definitely still be at dinner. 

"Sulking in here and beating yourself up, huh?" says Patrick, joining Brandon where he's leaning against the wall. "I can't say it's not princely, but I still wouldn't recommend it."

"I was a disaster," says Brandon flatly.

"Yeah, you were," Patrick says easily. "But it was a social occasion, not a hostage negotiation. Actually, you know, I'd never seen the Moldovan ambassador laugh before? You probably missed it, but I'm gonna find out who decided to sit her next to you and give that person a really generous raise." 

Brandon turns to face Patrick, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline. "Are you saying it was a good thing that I made an idiot of myself?" 

Patrick shrugs. "I wouldn't recommend it as a strategy for every dinner, but it's not the end of the world that it happened. It humanizes you." 

It's kind of amazing how calm Patrick manages to be—has managed to be in every absurd situation Brandon's seen him in over the last week or so. "Remind me again why you'd make such a terrible king?" Brandon asks, skepticism creeping into his tone.

Patrick smiles at him, then pulls out his wallet. Tucked inside is one of those plastic accordions of small pictures, which he passes to Brandon. It's well-thumbed, clearly something he looks at all the time, and all the pictures are of a beautiful woman and two small girls, at a variety of young ages. 

"Those are my two daughters," says Patrick, a little wistful. "I know kings have families, it's kind of in the job description, but—when you're responsible for the whole country, you can't put your family first the way I know I would if it came down to it. So that would be bad for Genovia, and it wouldn't be great for my girls, either, to have a dad who's always flying around the world."

Brandon folds the accordion back up carefully and hands it back to Patrick. "Yeah. I get it."

—

Brandon had known, logically, that if/when it came out that he was the prince, people were going to treat him differently. The staring as he walks across the quad, the impromptu autograph sessions—that stuff is weird, but more or less expected. But he didn't expect any of the guys on the team to treat him differently. They're not all best buddies off the ice or anything, but they _know_ him.

He was imagining that the locker room was going to be more or less the same was it was before, maybe plus a little chirping or a new nickname. But the minute he steps over the threshold, Tyler Seguin's throwing his arm around Brandon's shoulders and grinning at him. "Saader, just the man I was hoping to see! Why don't you step into my office for a sec," says Seggy, steering Brandon towards his locker without waiting for a response.

Not that Brandon was going to say no, though. He doesn't really say no to Tyler; nobody does.

"So, are you doing anything after our game on Saturday? 'Cause, you know, my boys are having a party, and it'd be really cool if you were there. Like, you're a pretty cool dude, you know? Quiet, but—" Tyler looks him up and down. Brandon flushes instantly. "I'd like to get to know you better." 

Brandon is more or less speechless, because this sounds a lot like Tyler Seguin asking him out, which is not at all a consequence he expected from prince-dom. When he doesn't say anything for a few seconds, Tyler seems to take that as an affirmative. He claps Brandon on the shoulder and says, "Sick, man! See you then. Looking forward to it."

In a daze, Brandon wanders back across the locker room to his own stall. His own stall, which is next to Shawzy's—and Shawzy is sitting in his stall, looking incredibly betrayed. 

It's not just like someone poked a hole in Brandon's happy balloon, it's like someone lit it on fire and it crashed Hindenburg-style. He opens his mouth to apologize, to say he'll cancel on Tyler, whatever—but Shawzy is faster. "Don't worry about it, Saader. Nice to see him finally looking back, huh? We can see the movie another time, whatever."

Andy is obviously working really hard to be nice about this, which just makes Brandon feel even worse. But he doesn't know what he can do at this point. He can feel Nick's eyes burning a hole in him, but—he freezes. He nods at Andy, and that's all he manages.

—

The shitty thing is that after all that—the party sucks. It's fun for about ten minutes, and then Brandon is reminded why he doesn't go to parties normally: they're really loud, everyone is obnoxiously drunk, and none of his friends are here. Oh, and someone seems to have tipped off the press, because there are flashbulbs everywhere, and Brandon's just—overwhelmed. 

Which is why when Tyler Seguin shows up and tugs Brandon into somebody's bedroom, away from the cameras, Brandon's primary emotions are intense relief and gratitude. "I can't believe somebody called the media, what a bozo," says Tyler, looking annoyed. "I finally get you to come to one of my parties and then they show up and ruin it."

That's a flattering thing to say, but there's a little voice in Brandon's head pointing out that Tyler has definitely never invited him to any of his parties before. "U-uh, no, it's—" he starts. But Tyler's really close all of a sudden, and his cologne smells kind of heady, and—

The door slams open, and at least half a dozen photographers pour in. Brandon's blinded by the flashing lights but he can hear a lady screaming "Kiss him!" and Tyler Seguin doesn't hesitate, just lays one on Brandon, sloppy and messy and kind of terrible. Brandon shoves him off at once, but there's too many cameras, he knows the damage is done. He can hear Tyler giving interviews as he muscles his way through the crowd and out of the house.

—  
As soon as he gets home, he steels himself, picks up his phone, and calls Patrick. Brandon emphatically does not want to, but he knows it's the right thing to do—at this point, Patrick may even already know. The wonders of social media, and all.

"Hey, Brandon. What's up?" says Patrick, as casual as ever, like getting phone calls at 11 PM on a Saturday is a standard occurrence for him. 

Brandon braces himself, then tears off the bandaid. "It's—I'm sorry, Patrick, I really don't think I can do this."

There's a pause, and then Patrick says, "Did something happen, or are you just having second thoughts? Are you all right?" 

"It's—" Brandon lets out a frustrated sigh. "Look, okay, a kid from school I liked asked me out to this party, and—I don't know if he tricked me or was just opportunistic, but there are pictures of him kissing me, so." 

Another, longer pause. "So you're making this decision because…"

"…because I'm clearly not cut out for it if I'm this easy to manipulate? Because it's going to be a huge scandal and that's probably not good for Genovia?" Brandon says, unsure why Patrick is even asking. He thought it was obvious, personally.

Patrick sighs on the other end of the line. "Well. Like I've always told you, it is your choice at the end of the day. I wouldn't worry about the scandal too much—Genovia's pretty liberal, and I'm sure a lot of LGBT citizens would be excited to have a prince who wasn't straight, but—if you really think it's not something you're cut out for, I'm not going to make you."

"Thanks, Patrick," Brandon says roughly. He's not—going to touch the part of that where Patrick suggested it could all still be okay. This prince thing has ruined his life enough already. He's going to put it back together and go back to being just Brandon. At least he's good at that. 

—

Patrick texts him the next morning to insist that even though Brandon won't be claiming the crown, he should still come to the Genovian Independence ball. He doesn't answer the text, but—he will go, probably. It seems like it could be fun, especially if he can get Nick and Andy to forgive him in time to go along.

And that process starts at hockey practice. He really expects them to be angry with him—god knows they have good reason to be, especially Shawzy—but it seems like Tyler using Brandon to get in the paper has made them forgive him out of rage, at least for now. Brandon's surprised, but he's definitely not going to question it.

Instead, he decides to cement it a little. What he does at practice isn't good teammate behavior and it's definitely not very princely of him, but, well…he gave that up, so. 

Besides, no one can _prove_ that he meant to aim that puck at Tyler's crotch. It was totally a mistake—it happens. He's pretty sure his apology was convincing (although Nick and Andy cracking up behind him may have undermined it a little). 

He corners Andy after practice—just because he seems to have been forgiven doesn't mean Brandon doesn't feel like he has to say the words himself. "I really am sorry for flaking out on you, Andy. That was shitty of me."

Andy shrugs. "I told you, B, it's fine. We'll go another time."

Brandon's about to suggest a time, just to emphasize that he's serious, but then he's distracted by his text alert. He pulls out his phone to read it and Andy hooks his chin over Brandon's shoulder to read it too, because he's a nosy jerk. 

It's a text from Patrick, and it reads: _Hey Brandon, forgot to mention. Just to get the press off your back, you should officially announce at the ball that you won't be taking a position in Genovian govt or pursuing your right to the crown._

Brandon knows that that's objectively a logical, smart move, but just the _thought_ of getting up in front of a bunch of dignitaries and media makes him about a thousand times more nervous than he was before his speech that went so badly. 

Shawzy laughs, and then reaches around Brandon's back to squeeze his other shoulder reassuringly. "Guess it's time to face your fears, huh?"

—

Andy is definitely right: facing his fears would be the adult, mature, _right_ thing to do. But Brandon knows that he's going to get up there, freeze up, and then probably turn into a meme when he throws up on the prime minister's head or something. 

Which seems worse than just not showing up, so. He's going to do that instead. 

He tricks his mom and Bob into thinking that he's riding with the other one, then starts packing the minute he's alone in the house. Not too many things, just his laptop and a few changes of clothes—enough to let him lie low while this blows over, that's all. 

He's just finishing packing his backpack when the sky breaks open, because of course it does, when Brandon's chief modes of transportation are his scooter and the L. But he can't let that stop him—if he sticks around here, his mom and Bob will figure it out and Bob will come back and drag him bodily into the car, probably. 

Brandon shoulders the bag onto his back, takes a deep breath, and steps out into the rain. And there, on his tiny, poorly sheltered porch, is Andy, hand raised as if to knock.

Brandon shuts the door behind him in surprise, and it locks, with the keys he didn't think he would need on the other side of it. So now they're both standing on the porch getting rained on, and they're stuck. 

"Nice bookbag, flight risk," says Andy, raising his eyebrow. "I don't suppose you have an umbrella in there?"

"Of course not," Brandon sighs. "Uh, but—what are you doing here?" 

Shawzy shrugs. "I kind of figured you might be trying this, so. Guess I was right on time."

There's really no point in pretending that that isn't what he'd been planning on. Brandon leans against the house, trying to stay a little bit drier, but Andy stands in the rain, arms crossed, waiting.

"Yeah," says Brandon finally.

Shawzy shakes his head, chuckling a little. "Knew it." There's a pause, and then he cocks his head a little and says, "You know, you could still change your mind."

Brandon gives Andy the most judgmental look he's capable of making. "Uh, yeah, that's definitely a good idea. I'm considering running away over giving a dumb speech, but you think I should be trusted to run a country?"

"Yeah, I do," says Andy instantly. He's got this look in his eyes, like faith and fire, and it's a good thing Brandon's leaning against the house already because it's a little overwhelming. "B, why are you so convinced you'd be bad at this? Like, okay, so you suck at giving speeches. Whatever! You're smart, you're kind, you're great in a crisis—I dunno, if you voted for princes I'd vote for you. You kind of just decided from day one that you weren't cut out for this, but what if you are and you're just scared?" And then he grins, fierce and mischievous, and says, "Don't be a _chicken_ , Saader."

Brandon can't help it; he's really got no other option but to step away from the house, take Andy's face in his hands, and kiss him. Andy kisses back enthusiastically and at once, though Brandon has to pull away after a few seconds to laugh at him. "I can't believe you're trying to dare me into _running a country_ ," he mutters against Andy's mouth.

Andy laughs at him and nips Brandon's lower lip gently. "Hey, if it's working…and it's totally working, huh?" 

Kissing him back is way better than answering that question, so that's what Brandon does. He's not sure how long they stand on the porch, kissing in the rain—it feels like a few seconds and a few hours all at once—but they're interrupted by the honk of a car horn. Brandon jumps and pulls away, but Andy's arms are tight around his waist, so he can't go far.

It's a bit hard to see through the rain, but the window of the car rolls down, and from inside comes a very familiar Russian voice: "Why you standing outside kissing in rain? Very romantic, also very good way to get hypothermia. Come on, get in," Bob shouts. 

Brandon looks at Andy and they both burst out laughing. "You heard the man, your highness," Andy teases. He relaxes his hold, but then takes Brandon's hand instead, and together they run through the rain to the backseat of the car.


End file.
